


Sans Vêtements (Alternate Ending)

by Crowgirl



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Developing Relationship, M/M, Not Beta Read
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-24
Updated: 2019-03-24
Packaged: 2019-11-29 00:46:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18215918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowgirl/pseuds/Crowgirl
Summary: ‘Oh, good. They did send someone. I thought perhaps they’d want to save the cost of the retirement party.’





	Sans Vêtements (Alternate Ending)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Sans Vêtements](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16846363) by [Catchclaw](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw). 



> Ah, so the question "What happens in Bonn?" was one that both [Catchclaw](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw) and me. You'll find my answer here and [read her take on it here.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16846363/chapters/43094711#workskin)

Q hasn’t been to Germany since an end-of-term trip when he was fifteen. That had been a weekend dash to and from Hamburg and mostly what he remembers is not knowing what museum he was in. Bonn is foreign territory in every sense of the word and he curses M every way he knows how as he works his way out of the Bonn airport -- it’s a miserable place; they’re all miserable places; do people actually enjoy this process? they must be absolutely mad -- and out to the taxi stand and via taxi through the center of town to the frankly grotty hotel Bond has himself holed up in this time and that’s if he’s even _there_ and-- 

Q swallows hard and turns back to cursing, distracting himself from the sound of M casually saying, ‘if he’s still alive’ as if it didn’t matter very much either way.

* * *

He pays off the taxi and gets himself and his bag inside. ‘Herr Mitchell?’ and a fifty euro note gets him a nod and a room key from the disinterested-looking young man at the front desk.

There’s no lift and Q curses _that_ for a change as he trudges up three pair of stairs.

He raps at the door before he unlocks it. Memories of the time Bond had nearly tackled him in Los Angeles when he’d simply unlocked the door and walked in -- as, he had pointed out, to an unreasonably amused Bond, any sensible human with the key to their own room _would_ do -- are still uncomfortably fresh.

It only occurs to him as he opens the door -- slowly, carefully, using it to shield his body because he’s not a complete muppet, whatever M thinks -- that he really has no idea what he’s about to walk into. Something to do with Russians, he knows that; and something to do with Bond not having checked in when he was supposed to. So this room could, potentially, be full of almost anything: dead bodies, poison gas, Russian heavies, Chinese heavies, _French_ heavies --

Bond, shirtless, barefoot, and bleeding heavily was not on the list.

‘Jesus!’ Q has just enough sense left to shut and lock the door before he drops his bag and scrambles to Bond.

Bond looks up at him and that’s when Q realises there’s a real problem because, even sitting down, Bond is swaying. He’s pale, too, all the color drained out from under the tan and he seems to have some trouble in getting Q into focus, to judge by his blinking. 

‘Oh, good. They did send someone.’ Bond swallows. ‘I thought perhaps they’d want to save the cost of the retirement party.’

And he faints.

At least, that’s what Q thinks he does: his eyes roll over white and he goes over backwards in a boneless, graceless heap. 

* * *

Q loses track of time while he works over Bond who, fortunately, stays unconscious. Every towel in the entirely inadequate bathroom, the remains of Bond’s shirt, and one of Q’s own -- he’s never been so grateful for his habit of layering -- gets turned into swabs and bandages before he’s done but the bleeding, at last, stops. Guessing by touch, there’s at least one fractured rib into the bargain but there’s nothing he can do about that. 

The worst is a long ragged tear over Bond’s left ribs, as if someone had tried to carve a way to his lung and Q shudders to think that perhaps someone might have. So he tucks in the last end of bandage, drops a blanket over Bond, washes his hands, draws up the room’s only chair, and sits down to wait and _not_ think.

* * *

He’s deep in a fiddly bit of coding, laptop on his knees and feet propped on the edge of the bedframe, when James sighs in his sleep, and makes as if to stretch.

‘No, don’t--’ Q reaches out without thinking and puts a hand on Bond’s shoulder. It’s immediately trapped and held with a grip startlingly strong for a man who was legless three hours before.

Q holds very still as Bond gets his eyes open and glowers at him. After a moment’s inspection, he lets out a long breath, releases Q’s wrist, and closes his eyes again. ‘I thought I dreamed you.’

‘No such luck,’ Q says, trying to sound breezy over the painful beating of his heart. ‘And you should be glad you didn’t.’

‘Oh, believe me.’ Bond rolls his head sideways on the pillow and smiles. It would be devastating if Bond were in his right mind; Q’s seen that smile enough times now to know and it’s only slightly less so for being worn around the edges. ‘I am well and truly grateful.’

‘Are we likely to have visitors any time soon?’ The door is locked but Q prefers to be prepared.

Bond rolls his head back and forth on the pillow.

‘Let me guess: they look worse than you do?’

Bond manages something like a chuckle. ‘I can hardly tell since I don’t know what I look like.’

‘Shit,’ Q says bluntly and this time Bond manages an actual laugh. It ends with a grunt of pain and a fumbling move towards his ribs.

‘Don’t--’ Q catches the wandering hand. ‘--you’ll make a mess of all my hard work.’ 

Bond makes some indistinct sound and, instead of pulling away, folds Q’s hand between his and against his chest.

Q waits a moment, then another, then another, and Bond shows no sign of moving. If his gentle breathing is any indicator, he’s actually gone back to sleep. So Q tries, gently, to ease his fingers free. Bond immediately makes a grumbling noise and holds them closer. 

Well. 

There’s no point in disturbing Bond further, is there? It’s not as if they can go anywhere until he can at least stay awake long enough to change his clothes. 

So Q picks up his laptop with his free hand and re-settles himself as best he can against the thinly padded headboard. ‘Couldn’t get a room in a decent hotel, could you? Do you get some kind of gold star on your record for finding _the_ grubbiest places to stay in?’

Bond makes a mumbling sound and Q snorts, then nudges Bond’s shoulder with his knee. ‘Budge over. I’m not getting cramp for you.’

Bond obligingly edges himself over a few inches and Q settles into the warm space.

‘I think I rather like you like this,’ Q says thoughtfully, shifting so his elbow is supported by Bond’s pillow. ‘You’re so compliant.’

* * *

Bond half-wakes an hour or so later, enough for Q to get some water and half a powerbar down him. When he slips back asleep this time, it’s without Q’s hand trapped and Q knows he shouldn’t find that as disappointing as he does. He’s tired, must be, and so he makes sure of the room’s security again -- as well as he can without access to the adjoining rooms -- digs the spare blanket out of the closet, skins off his jumper, toes off his shoes, and cautiously stretches out beside Bond.

Either Bond is more deeply asleep now or Q’s presence has finally sunk in as non-threatening, but he doesn’t so much as take a deeper breath as Q arranges himself and switches off the light.

The room doesn’t turn dark even with the light off; light leaks through the thin blind from the street below. Q fixes his eyes on the shadowy ceiling and tries to count sheep. It doesn’t work; he can smell dust and a faint, unpleasant tang of blood and antiseptic that catches at the back of his throat. 

He hates blood: his own, someone else’s, has since he was a child. Visible blood means something’s gone wrong somewhere and, of late years, it’s very likely to mean _he_ has gone wrong somewhere: a lock has failed, a code gone wrong, or, as in this case, an actual bit of gear broken when it shouldn’t have. 

He gives up on the sheep and simply closes his eyes, willing himself to sleep. It doesn’t work now any more than it has any time before because he’s wondering what Bond would have done if Q hadn’t arrived in such a timely fashion. Why on earth hadn’t he gotten himself to a hospital? Or at least a chemist? If he’d actually fainted before getting _something_ on that wound, would the blood loss have been bad enough--

He can’t hear Bond’s breathing over the suddenly painful sound of his own heart and he turns on his side before he can think, reaching out to feel Bond’s chest still rising and falling evenly. 

In the dim light, the lines and marks on Bond’s face, the greying stubble are all smoothed away and Q wonders, pulling his hand back gently to himself, if this is what Bond looked like as a young man. It doesn’t seem likely, really; Q can’t picture Bond as unlined and youthful, all the watchfulness not yet in his eyes, the lines smoothed away from around his mouth. He’d be beautiful, of course he would but--

Without thinking, Q stretches his hand out again, slow and careful, and brushes a fingertip over Bond’s cheek. His skin is warm and dry and Q can feel the edge of the beard trying to grow in along his jaw. He makes one gentle pass, from Bond’s temple to his chin, and hesitates.

‘Don’t stop.’ Bond’s voice is a gravelly whisper.

Q swallows. ‘I don’t want to keep you awake.’ 

Bond’s eyes gleam in the dim light and he shakes his head slowly, stopping with his cheek pressed against Q’s palm. ‘Were the circumstances different...’

Q shakes his own head. ‘Now I know you’re feverish.’

Bond smiles at him and Q’s breath catches: the expression is so uncomplicated, for once, no hidden code, no secret message. Bond is pleased, so he smiles. As simple as that. ‘I’ve never yet known a beauty capable of judging themselves accurately.’

Q shakes his head again and sweeps the tips of his fingers over Bond’s eyes. ‘Go to sleep. You won’t even remember this in the morning.’ 

Bond closes his eyes obediently, but he’s still smiling to himself and he catches Q’s hand, lacing their fingers together. ‘And if I do?’

Q swallows. ‘Then we’ll discuss it.’

* * *

Q wakes up slowly. The room is quiet, the bed warm and comfortable and although there’s something odd about it, the oddity isn’t enough to keep him from wanting to close his eyes again and drift back to sleep. Then it occurs to him that he hadn’t gone to sleep with someone’s arm wrapped over his shoulders or the scent of someone’s skin close around him. 

‘Suspicious, aren’t we?’ Bond remarks when Q cracks an eye open and peers up.

Q doesn’t bother to answer, instead taking stock of his limbs which seem to have become much more involved with Bond’s than they were when he went to sleep. ‘What are you doing?’

‘What does it look like?’ Bond punctuates the question with a slight wriggle of his shoulders that brings Q more firmly within the half-circle of his arm. 

‘Well, given that I’m not a contortionist and I can’t actually _see_ \--’ Q points out. ‘Are...are you cuddling me?’

‘Top marks for Q Branch.’

‘You were bleeding out not twelve hours ago!’

‘Then I think I deserve some recompense, don’t you?’

Q rolls his eyes and tries to shove himself up and away but Bond’s hand on his ribs is quite heavy and, really, he shouldn’t make Bond exert himself with that wound and-- ‘I’ll get you a nice blonde when we get back to London.’

‘Don’t play thick. It doesn’t suit you.’

‘You’d prefer a redhead?’ Q manages to get himself half-sitting up so he can at least see Bond’s face. Not that it makes him feel much better: James is looking up at him with a rather pitying expression.

‘No, I’d rather a brunet who can’t keep his hair combed for more than twenty minutes together.’

‘Bond--’

‘I’ll be terribly disappointed in myself if I’ve gotten this all wrong,’ Bond says and when had Q become such an expert in Bond’s body that he can see the slight increase of tension in his throat, the faint slip of his eyes to the side, the way he shifts his shoulders against the pillow as if to shrug -- 

And, of course, the answer’s obvious: he had become an expert because Bond has let him. No, Bond has _demanded_ it of him and right now everything about James is saying _open_ and _vulnerable_ and _hurt_ and Q can’t imagine Bond hasn’t made the same study of him so why on earth is this even a _question?_

‘Well, M would have my head if I brought him back a top agent who didn’t trust himself anymore.’ 

‘So he would,’ Bond agrees without moving.

Q hesitates but he might as well ask now as later. ‘When?’

Bond keeps silent until Q huffs and resettles himself, head on Bond’s shoulder, one hand flat over his breastbone. ‘London.’ 

Q frowns. That makes no sense. ‘What?’ 

‘It wasn’t easy persuading M to send you all the way out to California.’


End file.
